


When You're The One That I've Kept Closest

by coloursflyaway



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki throws another knife and watches it slice neatly through the flesh of Thor’s cheek, leaving a fine, red line weeping blood. It’s perfect, how the bead rolls down the other’s cheek, streaking golden skin crimson and somehow it fits, because Thor is a king and king’s deserve precious metals and gleaming jewels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're The One That I've Kept Closest

Loki throws another knife and watches it slice neatly through the flesh of Thor’s cheek, leaving a fine, red line weeping blood. It’s perfect, how the bead rolls down the other’s cheek, streaking golden skin crimson and somehow it fits, because Thor is a king and king’s deserve precious metals and gleaming jewels. He wants nothing more but to lean in and lick it away again.   
A huff of breath leaves Thor’s lips and for a moment, Loki fears that the thunderer will just leave, declare him beyond help and not just beyond reason and turn away, but then he grips Mjölnir tighter and fixes blue, blue eyes on Loki and comes at him again, the clanking of steel and the creaking of leather the sweetest music the trickster could ever imagine. His spear is singing in his hands, whirling through the air and parrying Thor’s first blow easily, clashing against the hammer in mid-air. There is no intent behind the other’s actions, or at least not enough, the vibrations barely travelling down his arms. Last time, Loki can remember, Thor’s blows had left him breathless, almost shattering every bone in his body with their sheer force, harsh and angry and perfect. He had been hurting when he had finally left, each joint, each bit of his flesh aching furiously; it had taken days to heal and he had enjoyed every second of it. Somewhere on his shoulder there is still a scar left which he hasn’t allowed to heal, a reminder of their fight. He keeps one mark for every one and sometimes, at night, he dreams of having them covering every inch of his skin.   
He brings his spear up again, almost reaching Thor this time before the thunderer blocks his blow, the sight letting white-hot anger rise inside him. This is not the way it is supposed to go and it means that Thor isn’t even trying. For one moment, his breath catches in his throat, because what does this mean? That even now, even after he has destroyed cities and killed innocent people in front of the other’s eyes, he is not worth at least a few minutes of Thor’s attention?  
The anger adds enough force to his next attack to have the thunderer taking a step back and Loki wants to rip every strand of that perfect, golden hair from Thor’s perfect, golden head. ‘Fight me!’, he roars, letting his spear crash against Mjölnir again and again and again. He needs this as much as he used to need Thor’s kind words and glances, if not more, but only when the thunderer pays him the respect he deserves. ‘Fight me!’  
There is no reaction, only Thor’s heavy breathing and the sound of metal against metal which should sound so sweet and yet is nothing but hollow to Loki’s ears. And he doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because this is what they have been doing for what feels like an eternity, Thor demanding for the trickster to renounce his evil ways and step back into his shadow, Loki shouting whatever abuse comes to his mind at the moment until they are both hoarse and exhausted. But there is no spark in Thor’s eyes as he looks at the other, they are still as blue and wide as always, but whatever life used to lie in them, making them more, making them special has faded and left them dull. Thor looks like a man who has been left to die and he fights like it, too.   
A part of Loki, the soft, childish, hateful part worries, wants to drop his weapon and make sure that his brother is alright, but he shoves it away like he always does, drowns it in anger and pain until he can breathe freely again. But he’s not angry anymore, he’s downright furious. What right does Thor have to let someone else kill him? What right does he have to let someone get close enough so that they could kill him? This is not the way it is supposed to be, not at all. It is supposed to them and only them, circling each other, taunting and teasing, coming closer but never touching.  
When their weapons meet the next time, he can feel the thunderer’s breath on his lips and he hisses a few poison-filled words because otherwise he would have to lean in and kiss him. Loki feels empty inside, something he hasn’t experienced in such a long time and it hurts. It’s nothing like the sweet ache of bruises or the clear, freeing sting of a cut, the delicious throbbing of a burn, it’s dull and painful and he hates it; but even more he hates Thor for making him feel this way. He screams, words tumbling from his lips without him paying any attention to what they are saying; there is no time, because he raises his arms, whipping the spear back in preparation of his next attack. They feel wrong, though, in a way he can’t describe because there is no expression for it, not in this language and not in any other he knows.   
And Thor drops Mjölnir. Thor drops Mjölnir, his arm still raised but useless now and it is too late, Loki realises with horror, his own hand already thrusting forward. His whole weight is put into the motion, because this was the one move designed to get Thor to wake up again from whatever trance had befallen him, but without his hammer, there is nothing to stop it anymore. The spear slices through the flesh of the thunderer’s arm, hitting bone and splintering it before ripping though boiled leather and chainmail as if it was but a child’s costume made of paper and fabric. Loki can feel the moment it reaches Thor’s chest, slicing through tissue and organs, bone and marrow as easily as his knife did through the other’s cheek. And then the motion suddenly stops, and for one surreal moment Loki doesn’t know why, not until he lifts his gaze and Thor is looking down at him. His whole body is pressed against the thunderer’s and there is blood gushing over his hand, warm and slick and terrifying.   
How long they stay like this, eyes locked, Loki does neither know nor care, because then Thor takes a step back and falls to his knees with a soft thump, metal clanking and leather creaking. And Loki follows, as if he had no other option and really, he hasn’t, because Thor is the only thing still holding him upright, maybe always has been.  
His hand is still gripping the shaft of his spear tightly and he can’t let go because letting go would make this even more real. ‘Why?’, he asks, his usually so steady voice is barely whisper. In any other moment, he would cringe at its sound, cover it up with insults and threats and the dangerous crackle of magic, but there is still a trace of red on Thor’s cheek and he can feel the blood flowing freely between his fingers.   
‘I am tired’, the thunderer answers softly and suddenly Loki realises that these are the first words the other has spoken since he has arrived.   
‘Then sleep.’ It’s an answer not worthy of the god of lies, he knows, but there is desperation rising in his throat and if he doesn’t continue speaking, he’ll start crying instead and that has never been an option.  
Thor chuckles, the soft sound turning into a cough and his cheek and suddenly the trickster’s hands are not the only thing blood has turned crimson anymore. ‘I am tired of this. I am tired of fighting, of trying to reach you when there has never been a chance to succeed. Of you pushing me away. Of watching you spiral further and further into madness. Of hurting you so much you can barely walk anymore just so that I don’t have to kill you. It’s not worth it.’  
It takes a moment until Loki understands what Thor is saying and even longer until he can believe it. Because Thor has gotten it all wrong again. His hand is still gripping the shaft of his spear tightly and he wants to turn it and watch the thunderer cry out in pain as punishment; though who he wants to punish, he doesn’t quite know.   
‘You know nothing, Thor Odinson’, he says and watches the thunderer’s eyes widen slightly. It is so wrong that now, when Loki can feel the life leaving him slowly, the spark has found its way back into the other’s eyes again. Thor, the man who he has been leaning on for half his life is swaying slightly, not able to support his weight anymore and Loki moves closer, offering his own body and not even flinching as one of the other’s hands come to rest on his hip. It still feels more like the touch of a lover than the one of a dying man.   
‘I was trying to keep you close’, he forces out between his trembling lips, hating how disgustingly weak he sounds, broken and shattered. It’s no explanation, he knows, but it’s as close as he can get to one and Thor… Thor understands. His crimson-stained lips curl up in a tiny smile and Loki wants to shout at him, wants to order him to stop because his blood is still gushing over Loki’s fingers and he is dying. But Thor smiles weakly and says, ‘I suppose I should have asked.’  
If he hadn’t done it already, Loki would stab him again. But instead he brings the hand which isn’t still gripping the shaft of his spear tightly up to the thunderer’s face, cupping the back of his neck and pulling Thor against him until there is barely any space left between them. A pained gasp escapes the other and it only now that he realizes that he just drove the spear further into Thor.   
It shouldn’t matter, but it still does, Loki’s insides clenching in the most torturous way he has ever experienced. ‘Yes’, he breathes out to distract himself, and then, ‘Why didn’t you know? You were supposed to know.’  
The thunderer just looks at him and for a moment, Loki fears Thor has died and he hasn’t even noticed. ‘You should have said’, the other says and it’s soft and it’s sad and Loki doesn’t know how he can even hear it over the sound of his heart devouring itself in his chest.   
‘Yes’, he repeats, because maybe it will make it hurt less. It doesn’t.   
His hand is still gripping the shaft of his spear tightly and he can feel the life flowing out of the thunderer and for a short, mad second, Loki wants to rip it out of the other and drive it through his own chest instead.   
‘I…’ No words come, because he knows that whatever he says, he has to make it count. The blood is colouring everything crimson and there is not much time left with Thor is looking at him; everything about his gaze is cruel because there is no anger in his eyes, no resentment.   
He leans in and kisses him, stealing one of Thor’s last breaths. It’s selfish and he knows it, but he can’t allow the other to die without having felt those lips against his at least once. ‘Brother’, he whispers and tastes copper and salt. Thor smiles and breathes and kisses back and dies.  
There is a moment in which the world stops, not only rotating or breathing or moving, but existing because without Thor, it is worthless. Because it doesn’t matter how much Loki might have loved or might have hated the thunderer, his thunderer, he was the one thing defining Loki himself. A sound escapes him, neither chuckle nor sob, dry and rough and painful even to his own ears, and he pulls back, Thor’s lifeless body falling forward, his perfect, golden head resting heavily against Loki’s shoulder. His fingers thread themselves into the other’s hair, a gesture more gentle than any touch they have shared in the last hundred years and for a moment, it almost feels like an embrace. The blonde strands beneath his palms are soft as he uses them to pull Thor’s head up, tilting it back so he can look at the thunderer’s face for one last time. Thor’s eyes are still open, still blue and even if they are dead and sightless, Loki can’t bring himself to shut them; there is a smile on his lips and Loki wants to kiss it away. And there is blood, on Thor’s cheek and his lips, on his chin and everywhere in between and he can still feel the warm trickle of more between his fingers.   
Without thinking, Loki brings a finger to brush over his own lips where he can still feel Thor’s kiss, but when he pulls it away again, it’s dark with blood and he licks it away, his heart breaking, crumbling, shattering. There’s the taste of copper, of salt, of death and of Thor burning on the tip of his tongue and Loki smiles, cruelly and desperate at the same time as a single tear rolls down his cheek. It’s all he allows himself, can allow without breaking down. He wipes it away angrily, and leaves a smudge of Thor’s blood on his skin as he rises. It’s hard with his knees weak and shaky, but he manages, standing hunched over Thor’s dead body. This should be victory and yet he only feels empty, as if the thunderer had taken a part of him as well.   
Thor is still all gold and crimson and Loki can feel his kiss, even if they aren’t even touching anymore, the only point of contact the trickster’s hand which is still gripping the spear tightly. And Loki smiles, because this is goodbye and it’s the only thing he can do without breaking into tears.  
And he lets go.


End file.
